


He Also Bears His Cross

by 3kmicrowav



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dominion War, Holodecks/Holosuites, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:55:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3kmicrowav/pseuds/3kmicrowav
Summary: He himself might really fly his aircraft and flee to some space farm in the far corner of the milky way if the Federation started a war with malicious intentions, with all the people he cared about tucked in the back trunk.





	He Also Bears His Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH by William Butler Yeats.

The time Miles O'Brien decided to stop the simulation and go to Quark's to grab a drink was at a late hour. Yet he's not so sure how long it had passed since 1900 -- in a holographic novel, no one could tell the exact passage of time. After all, they skipped unnecessary hours automatically, like they didn't really have to wait in the hangar for mechanics to prepare their flight as real pilots would do in World War II.

Once he called to pause and instructed the computer to land his vintage aircraft on the ground, he wriggled in his closed cockpit and unbuttoned the heavy jacket and started to mop his sweaty face with the scarf. The environment control had been too kind to them because, in a real air battle in the 20th century, it would be freezing 5000 miles above and they'd be lucky if these sweats had not turned snowflakes and stuck onto their faces. Bashir had suggested changing the variables to make it more realistic, but Miles simply replied, "no", because, come on, this was a game in the end, and he didn't want to catch a cold or get around on a pair of painful arthritic knees, although Bashir would definitely promise to cure any physical pain had he elaborated the "no" into details. His friend could be most helpful at most times, but sometimes, Miles just wanted to be left alone.

He dug his bundle for any liquid to smoothen his dry throat caused by shouting to the ancient on-board radio, too disrupted to hear after taking all those hits from German bombers. He just couldn't wait to leave this holosuite and take his duly break, properly. But the next thing he heard was the noncontinuous sound of Julian Bashir from the radio.

"What happened, Miles? Did you freeze the game? All those Germans just disappeared." He sounded anxious. "Something happened?"

"No, Julian. I just want to end it earlier tonight." Miles found out a flask from the pocket, humphed, but soon found it empty so just threw it out of the window. "Can't we just go have a drink? I'm thirsty." He opened the hatch door and climbed down along the ladder anyway. It's a strange feeling, considering the fact that they seldom made it to the end of the battle, mostly shot down after one or two interim victories that barely worth mentioning.

He checked the time while Julian was landing his craft across the yard and then trotting towards Miles. The look on Julian's face proclaimed a protest, but before any words coming out, Miles called the computer to open the door.

"Miles, you're not serious about the game." Miles heard the whinge, ignoring it. "It was going well! We could ALMOST win the battle this time."

"You know we can't win-- It's all written in the script." Miles was trying to take off his scarf. It's suffocating. "Historically speaking, what we were doing was to invent more creative ways to commit suicide. Uh," He frowned at the crowded bar, "It's full."

But Julian didn't stop babbling even when they had already left the game behind them. "But you had missed the essence of the game. Not about the settled conclusion, but the chance, the variations we could make. Surviving the battle? Maybe not. Turning the table? Perhaps. Saving the England? Definitely."

"Oh, really, are we going to talk about patriotism now?" Squeezing through the crowd and now standing before the bar, Miles found it annoying that neither Quark nor any of his employee was here to serve his drinks. The war seemed to bring a large sum of profits to them, as more and more refugees were coming and going in and out of the station and seeking a comfort drink from any available places.

"Well, of course you can call it with another name if not patriotism. Loyalty, devotion, protectiveness... any feelings you could have to your country, in this case, England." Julian was making his trademark smiling annoyance that Miles would really prefer him to shut up if he himself still had the energy to do so. "Even though back in the 20th century it's all about a small area on one planet, but the feeling is the same. Alpha Quadrant, Federation, Earth, England... not so many differences."

Miles was staring at a far corner where Quark was busy mixing up several colourful liquids for another Starfleet officer who probably just arrived today. Hearing Julian's word, he turned around and barked, "Well, new for you, Julian, I'm not even an Englishman. For god's sake, I'm Irish! I don't know why even I'm fighting this battle for you noble British. If I was really living in the beginning of the 20th century, I'd just stay cozy on my farm, far away from your burning London, herding my sheep or something." He asked for a Scotch when Quark approached, who was apologetically rubbing his hands together. "Really, none of my business."

"Oh, Miles, I know that's not what you're really thinking about." Julian laughed as if he thought it was a joke. He ordered the same thing, a gesture that made Miles uncomfortable every time. He raised the glass and drained it, and when he put the glass down, he found Julian was doing the same thing. Suddenly he decided to say something.

"You know what, Julian. Not everyone thinks the same way as you did." He tried to be reasonable, but not like a preacher as Julian always were, always selling his ideas. He's trying to be polite. "You're a good man. No doubt in WWII or any other wars you can find yourself a place to save people because that's what you do, what aristocratic boys used to do, owning the world, so feel responsible to be on the frontline, to protect those who are less capable. But for me? I'm only doing because I happen to be here. Not passionate about it at all."

He finished his speech and turned his face to another direction, not looking at Julian in fear of seeing an angry face. But what welcomed him was neither anger nor silence-- on the contrary, Julian made a sound that suspiciously sounded like a chuckle. Miles turned around with a huge amount of disbelief obviously on his face. "What's so funny about this?"

"It's just so... déjà vu, I dare say." Julian couldn't stop but to click on the counter. "Do you know about this...? 'Those that I fight I do not hate; Those that I guard I do not love.' It's just... so YOU." He made another short laugh. "I mean, you're Irish and you're the pilot, in our war games, and you doubt about the meaning of your fight for the England!" He had to palm his face to stop the rude laughing sound. Miles arched his eyebrow, and his confusing look made Julian laugh even more.

"Are you making jokes by relating me to a certain dead Irish pilot from Yeats' poem?" Some while later, after Miles figuring out what Julian was referring to from a PADD, finally, he spoke. "Haha, very funny. But for your information, I really lack the sense of appreciation for melancholy death because someone thought it was the only way to running away from the dilemma."

"You wouldn't be in the dilemma at all. See, you've made up your mind. Farm up north? Won't be a bad escape whenever there is a war."

"Well, if it is all about wars on earth..." Miles mumbled. "There's no place to escape when the war is everywhere up among the stars..."

Julian had left for his night shift, blessed with the ability to dissipate the effects of alcohol by accelerating the chemical process. Miles didn't feel like to drink more, so he just ordered a plate of sunflower seeds and stood up, looking around for a seat in the corner so he could kill his time in the bar since no wife or children were waiting for him at home.

Compare to half an hour before, the bar had passed its peak hour and seemed to be quieter. Miles spotted a dark corner and walked towards it, only to find it's already occupied by two familiar people. Odo was holding a cup of coffee, which was highly probable to be a part of his own body, and Garak was spooning a steaming stew. Both men were looking at him as he approached.

"Uh, sorry. Didn't intend to interrupt you." Miles didn't know which was more impolite, to just walk away or sit at their table. "Just off duty?"

"In fact, Chief O'Brien, we had to return to our posts after this short intermission." Odo replied, "Or Mr. Garak wouldn't take a snack in the midnight... he's very careful about his body shape."

"Oh, forget about the body shape-- there's not much left to be careful about." Garak put away his spoon anyway. "Don't you feel like joining us, Mr. O'Brien? You seemed to enjoy a fun... evening with our good doctor." Miles felt he's being glanced from head to toe. "He's very specific about the costumes-- very faithful to the historical facts. In another word, impractical. I hope you don't feel uncomfortable when wearing them."

"They're a bit heavy, but that's all fine." Miles shook his head. "The only problem is about the game. I've been dragged into this game for more than three times, but in none of them I survived the simulated Battle of Britain. Maybe the problem is I don't feel belonged to the Britain."

"And Doctor Bashir felt so?" Odo asked, not bothering to keep his coffee cup and turning it back to the normal shape of his hand.

"You can say that." Miles waved his hand which was not holding the plate. "He even made a relatable joke from an old poem, as if I'm the same Irish pilot in the war. To be honest, I don't think that's even a joke, because it's not funny at all."

"Sounds like our doctor." Garak agreed, "He used to laugh at things we don't know where is the point. It's getting rarer these days, but good to hear that the laugh still exist, although always before you."

"Well, not so always as you think." Miles felt awkward to hear Garak saying something that makes the air awkward. "In fact, he's getting all those clouds over his face as the war going on... I don't really want to play this stupid pilot hologame, but it seems to be the only way to wipe the clouds off his face. So, duh, my burden to bear." He popped one sunflower seed into his mouth, chewing it loudly, in a way would make both aliens knit eyebrows if they had any. "So... you fellas, continue. I might find somewhere else."

After walking around the bar for some time, finally, Miles found a quiet seat so he could sit down and read some books. On the screen of his PADD still showed the poem written by Yeats, and Miles could not help but stare at it for a few more minutes.

_"... Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,_  
_Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,_  
_A lonely impulse of delight_  
_Drove to this tumult in the clouds;_  
_I balanced all, brought all to mind,_  
_The years to come seemed waste of breath,_  
_A waste of breath the years behind_  
_In balance with this life, this death."_

He shook his head before the screen and popped more seeds into his mouth. Maybe it's a verse of solemnity, maybe nihilism, but it's definitely not about him. He knew what he's fighting for, and he's not planning to die. He's going to survive the war and live a happy life with Keiko, Molly and Yoshi. If the poem was written about anyone he knew, he'd rather say it's about people like Odo and Garak. He would easily feel lost if in their shoes, fighting those they are not supposed to hate and guarding those they are not supposed to love. Anyway, it's their own problem to get into difficult moral situations. He himself might really fly his aircraft and flee to some space farm in the far corner of the milky way if the Federation started a war with malicious intentions, with all the people he cared about tucked in the back trunk.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> FULL POETRY
> 
> The Wild Swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats  
> AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH
> 
> I know that I shall meet my fate  
> Somewhere among the clouds above;  
> Those that I fight I do not hate  
> Those that I guard I do not love;  
> My country is Kiltartan Cross,  
> My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,  
> No likely end could bring them loss  
> Or leave them happier than before.  
> Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,  
> Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,  
> A lonely impulse of delight  
> Drove to this tumult in the clouds;  
> I balanced all, brought all to mind,  
> The years to come seemed waste of breath,  
> A waste of breath the years behind  
> In balance with this life, this death.


End file.
